Black Friday
by Calculated Artificiality
Summary: "...Sometimes you even get a punching bag... What do I get out of this relationship, Cal?"  Set the morning after "In the Red."
1. One

A/N: Hello! So, this is set the morning after (with brief flashbacks to the night of, I suppose) "In the Red." So, there are spoilers for that episode! I'm almost done with the second part of this, but wanted to get the first part up. As usual, I'm not happy with it, but I wrote it, so I'm putting it out there. I like **reviews** as much as the next girl and **they're helpful** in several ways-not the least of which is determining what works (for a story or for my writing in general) and what doesn't. So, please be a dear and if you have a moment, leave one.

Disclaimer: I totally own them. Which is why, in next week's episode, you'll see Cal grovelling and falling at the Altar of Gillian Foster and begging her to forgive his sorry, worthless ass. (if you don't see that, consider me a liar).

Further, I have a love affair with the dash "-" So, I apologize for that.

Now. On with the story.

Cute Curtsies

* * *

Gillian Foster breezed into her office the next morning with an air of determination and purpose about her—not a hint of anger, a fact that worried Cal Lightman. He had been out late with the detective the previous evening, but in truth, he had scarcely been able to concentrate on a single word he or Detective Wallowski had exchanged.

He was too worried about what was going to transpire between he and Gillian the next morning. He kept imagining her in her tidy apartment seething at him—muttering and mumbling through clenched teeth. He imagined her fists balled up at her sides as she ran through the various ways she was going to tear him a new one in the morning. He had to hold back involuntary shudders as he thought of being subject to her wrath—even Wallowski noticed that he wasn't quite "there" on their date. He assured her nothing else was on his mind, but the woman wasn't stupid and he just couldn't get himself to focus.

In reality, Gillian Foster had gone home and cried. She hadn't meant to. She'd meant to be angry and indignant and pissed off—but when she got home to the stillness of her apartment, she found herself sullen. She looked around at the emptiness and admitted loneliness that surrounded her and leaned against the door, keys in her hand.

_And this is what I have_.

That was the resounding thought that ached through her mind as she absent mindedly ran her fingers along some of her possessions on her way to the kitchen. She turned on the radio on her way and the sounds of cool Jazz emanated through her apartment. She poured herself a glass of wine and took it upstairs. As she kicked her heels off and sat down on the edge of her perfectly made bed, she took a sip of her wine and as the taste hit the back of her throat she couldn't help herself—she cried.

Minutes later she found herself huddled on the bed in a fetal position, clutching a throw pillow, enveloped only by silence and the ghosts of a song that sounded vaguely familiar to her. Her mind kept going back to Cal and the moment they'd "shared" earlier in the evening—

He'd lied to her. He'd lied to her all along—made her believe that their relationship really was a two-way street. When all along she had just conveniently been going the same way as he had been—thus negating the institution of any sort of friction.

But it all came to a head tonight. She should be pissed. She really should be pissed—but all she felt was sad. All she felt was this overwhelming numbness invade her entire body and when she rose to look at herself in the mirror, the tracks of mascara running down her cheek felt absolutely foreign to her. The woman in front of her felt absolutely foreign to her.

With a sigh she went into the bathroom to wash her face of the remnants of the day.

_And this is what I have left_.

* * *

She did her best to put on her brave face that Friday morning. She went about her business and tried to act nonchalant. She didn't go see Cal as she knew he'd expected her to. He expected her to rage. If she were completely honest with herself, that's what she had expected, too.

They were both stranded in unfamiliar territory. Her heart felt a little bit broken, which she hadn't felt in a very long time. Since before Alec. With Alec, it was a gradual break. She had fallen out of love with him a little bit each day before the divorce finally came, so she didn't have to deal with the tragedy that inevitably came with it. She had been tucking away the tragedy in the corner of her mind each day, facing it head on bit by bit.

This—her situation with Cal—was an entirely different can of worms. She hadn't seen this coming. No, in fact, there had been times when she'd seen the exact _opposite _of this coming.

She hadn't expected him to rally against her the way that he had—she hadn't expected his meanness. That was a quality he usually reserved for everyone _but _her. She had come to believe that she was different. That Cal was different to, for and because of her.

He had proven her wrong last night.

She wasn't expecting Cal to show up at her office midday when he did.

He knocked slightly, didn't wait for a reply and stuck his head in tentatively. Trepidation was all over his face as his eyebrows shot up slightly. His body was careful to stay outside the door, his head just popping in.

She glanced at him and raised her eyebrows in a question.

He let out air and it seemed to settle in the room—this thick _something _between them: "We gonna talk about this?" He asked, cautiously.

She could see his body was tensed up, prepared for her rage. He was unprepared for her deflation.

"Talk about _what_, Cal?" she asked tiredly as she placed the cap back on her pen and stuck it in her top drawer.

His mouth made a slight 'o' and he pushed the shoulder open with his door before stepping across the threshold.

It didn't escape her that he didn't even ask if he could come in. She thought about commenting on it, but decided against it.

"Seriously?" He asked. He took the liberty of plopping down in her chair and rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his open palm. His fingers drummed his mouth as he looked intently at her face.

She sighed, "Yes, seriously." she replied, her frustration barely creeping in to her voice, "What do you want me to say, Cal?"

He looked genuinely confused at this—in truth, he was genuinely confused. Why was she not yelling at him? He couldn't understand it.

She crossed in front of her desk, leaned up against it and folded her arms over her chest.

"I mean, really, Cal, just what do you want me to say?"

Perplexed, he treaded carefully "I—I don't know."

She rolled her eyes. "Because whatever you want me to say, I'll just go ahead and say it, Cal. I mean, really, that's how this relationship works, isn't it? You tell me what to do—I do it. Anything else is overstepping some imaginary boundary, it seems."

"Foster, that's not true…" he started.

"Oh, it's not?" She questioned, letting her hands fall to her sides. "What was last night, then?" she tilted her head slightly to the right.

"Last night was…" he trailed off. He had no bloody idea what last night was and to pretend to try to explain it seemed much more effort than he was currently willing to give, particularly because he knew there was a snowball's chance in hell that she'd buy it.

"Exactly, Cal." she stated as she crossed to sit in the chair across from him. "You told me once that you valued my opinion—but it seems that it's only of value when it's the same as yours."

"Now, wait a bloody minute—" he began.

"No, Cal. You don't get to be angry about this. You don't." She said firmly, though anger still wasn't anywhere in her bloodstream. All she could feel was profound sadness. She did her best to keep it out of her words.

Silenced, he sat looking at her expectantly.

"You know, up until last night, I thought I knew how this—" she gestured between them "worked. I honestly believed we were in a _partnership_, that I was a valuable asset to this corporation—that I was a valuable asset to _you_."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued "But I didn't realize that all _this_ was simply an elaborate dance—a carefully calculated, on your part, arrangement. I'm supposed to behave one way and one way only and it's to be the way that _you _prefer or no other way at all. If I behave contrary to your liking, we're _through_." She finished and looked at some fixed point on the floor instead of at him.

"You finished?" He asked, his temper flaring up again.

"Probably not." She admitted.

"Well, it's my turn then. None of that was what last night was about."

"What _was _it about then, Cal?"

"You froze my bloody assets!" he exclaimed as though this should be reason enough—his voice going up slightly in pitch.

She just shook her head. "And there you go again—mine, me, my—I'm to obey _you_, Cal. And I didn't realize that until last night. Not fully, anyway. But last night I realized that I've been struggling with these etiquettes for the last few months and I'm just so _damn tired_, Cal. You're selfish is what you are. And everything is yours—this company, these cases, this science—hell, any valuable contribution I could make would inherently be yours then."

He scoffed, his anger getting the best of him "Valuable contribution?"

She got up then and returned to the seat at her desk. For the first time she felt a quick flash of anger—she felt it enter her and shake hands with the sadness that had taken up residence. She took a moment to nurse the anger before she spoke—and then she manufactured some anger, faking it as best she could "_Fuck_" she exhaled, letting her exasperation show through, "What do you _want _from me, Cal?" She rested her cheek on her hand. "_What the hell do you want from me?"_

He considered her for a moment. That was a damn good question. It was one he'd been asking himself for years now. One day he thought he knew the answer, the next day he had no clue what he wanted from her.

He looked away from her for the first time then. His frustration still controlled him and his words came out angrier than he'd anticipated "I want you to mind your own bloody business, Foster. That's what I want."

She just stared at him and blinked a few times—she had no words at that particular moment.

"I want you to treat the people I bring into this company with a little _respect_, Foster, that's what I want."

She did speak then. "You mean Wallowski." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," he waved his arm around, "Her. Clara. People."

She laughed a little indignant laugh—"Do you mean people, Cal? Or do you mean women? "

"What's the difference?"

Her eyes shone. "There's a difference. You _know_ there's a difference." At his silence she continued—"Let me get this straight: You want me to treat the _women _you bring into this company and then _fuck_ with a little _respect_?"

Her voice was still not angry, but Cal flinched at her abrupt language.

"Yeah." Was all he could say.

She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, observing him. The sadness washed over her again and she let out a little noise when it made its way all the way down to her toes: "That is _so _rich, Cal. You get what you give." she stated, her eyes boring into his.

"What's that mean?"

"It means," she folded her hands on the desk, "that you ask of me what you refuse to give to me."

"You think I don't respect you?" he observed, putting the pieces together.

She nodded her head. "I know you don't."

He gave her an inquisitive look.

"Mother Superior?" she offered up.

"You practically chased us into the hall!" he said defensively.

"Stop mothering me?"

"You were mothering me—I'm a grown man!"

"You're smothering?"

"You were!"

She let out a little sigh of disgust and her facial expression matched the sentiment, "And this is the problem, Cal, it really is. You don't consider anyone else's feelings before you act." She cocked her head to the side, "Well, now, that's not really true is it? There are feelings you consider" She placed emphasis on the word, letting him know exactly what she meant, "just never _mine_."

It was his turn to let out a little noise "Oh, please," he followed this with a gesture of his hand as though he was waving me off.

She chuckled mirthlessly. "Tell me, then, Cal—let me get this straight—out of our relationship you get a friend, someone to talk to when you need it, someone to do your dirty work, someone to pull you out of messes, someone to take care of the financials—you're also supposed to get someone to smile and curtsy to the endless parade of women you bring in here. Sometimes you even get a punching bag," her memory flashed back to the night previous before she continued "Tell me Cal, because I'm very curious, what do _I _get out of our relationship?" She looked at him expectantly, palms outward.

He considered her face—he watched the pain flash across it. He had expected anger. He could deal with her anger—he was finding it harder to combat her pain and sadness. His mind mulled over her words—they had been spoken calmly, almost completely free of malice save for the last bit, but he still couldn't help the way they hit him in the stomach. He felt the air in the room, thick and heavy, and he brought a hand up to his eyes and rubbed them, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

He shouldn't have said it—he knew at the time that he shouldn't have said it, but he had been acting irrationally and not himself the past few days and so he did.

He looked at her through lidded eyes trying to convey how tired he was of the conversation and situation—still pinching the bridge of his nose he said "A paycheck?" and never took his eyes off of her.

He watched the emotions that passed over her face—he could see them plain as day as she didn't have time to try to control them.

He saw shock, then confusion, and a slight bit of anger before sadness set in again. The oblique eyebrows intrigued him less than the tears that seemed to immediately well in her eyes—her lip trembled and she bit it to try to hide that she was getting ready to cry.

He watched her take a deep breath and steady herself by placing her palms flat on the desk in front of her. She took a few seconds to compose her self and then she looked down at the desk.

"A paycheck." She breathed out and shook her head slightly. "Yeah." Cal watched as she steeled her face—"I can't do this anymore, Cal." She stated, looking him straight in the eye. Though he wasn't an expert in voices, he did recognize the resignation evident in her voice.

Cal felt a tingle run through his body at her words. It was the adrenaline coursing its way through his body—he couldn't hide the panic that flashed across his face—

"What's that mean?"

She got up and he followed suit, she tried to walk past him to her bookshelf and he caught her wrist in his hand—"Don't." She said, glancing at where their skin touched and then focusing on his eyes.

He immediately released her, but his voice was full of panic and his hazel eyes bore into her blue when he repeated himself, something he loathed to do, "_What does that_ _mean?_"


	2. Two

_A/N: i knew where i was going with this story: toward absolution. then last week's episode aired and now i'm not so sure (really, "clean like you?"). after all, the inspiration for this story came from vic chesnutt's "I'm Through." anyway. thoughts/suggestions are welcome-constructive criticism is welcome as well. As is, of course, praise. whichever you feel like giving; just give it._

_-natalie_

* * *

Black Friday, Chapter Two.

"_Don't you dare call this disloyalty;  
There's no way you could be more wrong._

_

* * *

_

Gillian wrung her fingers together in front of her abdomen as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. She had thought long and hard the night previous about—well, about everything, really. She had considered her relationship with Cal, her relationship with the Lightman Group, her relationship with herself—and when she walked into the office this morning she hadn't yet decided just which course she was going to take. But, in the end, she had decided to err on the side of self-preservation—a decision she was not entirely too familiar with.

She regarded Cal with caution and what seemed, to him, quite like an air of suspicion. "I can't live my life going from ultimatum to ultimatum, Cal." She finally spoke, and watched as his eyes registered confusion, "I won't." She corrected.

He wasn't sure what he should say—he wasn't sure what he _could_ say, really, so he lamely stumbled upon his words "Th—that was the first one, Foster."

She nodded. "One's enough." She smiled, but it wasn't genuine and Cal was surprised at the pang of guilt he felt in his gut at the sight of her fake smile: "One's too many, actually."

"So, what? We're—" he wasn't sure he could bring himself to say it. He tried to get it off his tongue and when he finally did it sounded so much more foreign than it had the night before: "through?" he said it with the same air of contempt he had last night—only this time the contempt was for the idea itself and not for Gillian herself.

She idly fingered a book on her shelf—"Your words, not mine." She shrugged.

All at once Cal felt the air leave his lungs for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon. He didn't trust his legs so he ran his hands across his face as he quickly made his way to one of Foster's chairs.

"I—" he faltered, stunned into a specific type of reverie "I don't know what to say."

She chuckled "Well, there's a first."

It was the sort of comment that he would have laughed wholeheartedly at were it issued in any other circumstance. But he could feel the duress setting it—he could feel his heart clenching in his chest like someone had a grip on it and they were squeezing hard. He almost smiled at this thought as he realized it was true—Foster had her delicate hand gripped tightly around his heart and it was him who had thrust it in her hand to begin with. He had given her this ammunition last night and he wracked his brain trying to think of an appropriate way to backpedal.

He shook his head firmly, his eyes dark "This is unacceptable."

She shrugged again. "I agree, Cal. This whole debacle is unacceptable—but you made it clear—quite clear, actually—that I don't have a place here at the Lightman group."

"I was angry!"

"Okay. I was angry, too. But I didn't say those things to you. The things you said, they came out of someplace real—somewhere, you really feel that."

He shook his head twice. "I don't."

"Really? " She crossed to the chair across from him and stood behind it, keeping it as a barrier between the two of them—she knew it was silly but as she leaned her abdomen against it, she felt safer, somehow. She felt protected. "You're forgetting my expertise."

He tilted his head to the side and his eyes softened as he tried to convey his apology to her.

"Cal." She admonished, "As you so astutely pointed out yesterday, I am the voice expert. You meant it when you said we'd be through. And what's worse, maybe, is that you meant it when you said that the Lightman group was built on _your _blood and _your _sweat." She gave him a half smile of the wry variety, "You forget about my tears."

He had no words.

"So, you have the Lightman group—you have a partner at your beck and call, you have a friend and, what do I have? A paycheck?" Her disdain for the words he'd spoken earlier was clear, "Really, what do I _have_?"

His brain felt so scrambled that he was having trouble following her line of logic—it seemed to him that Gillian was erratically jumping from point to point when really the opposite was true. "What do you mean—what do you have?"

"I spent the greater part of last night—the part where I wasn't crying—" she admitted and she caught his eyes and read a very specific type of shame there "trying to figure it all out. If this company is built on you and you alone—then what, precisely, do I have?"

She could see he wasn't following—and he didn't have an answer for her. More accurately, Cal did have an answer for Gillian, but after everything he'd said and done to her in the past 24 hours it would sound incredibly trite and he wouldn't demean her any further by saying the monosyllable.

"What is all this, Foster?" His voice was gentler than she'd heard it in ages.

She wasn't sure how much of this she wanted to share—she wasn't sure how much of this Cal deserved to actually know. Making a snap decision—and one that was counterintuitive to everything she'd been doing her whole life, she decided to tell him that: "I'm not sure how much you deserve to know," she said coolly, although she felt incredibly flustered inside.

"Probably not very much," he shrugged, his face a study in blankness.

"You're always giving nothing away, Cal—I mean that the way it sounds, and I mean it other ways, too. There you go, putting the mask in place. You keep your cards close to your chest, and okay, that makes sense, I guess. But the problem is I'm _always _giving everything away, aren't I?"

He didn't respond, understanding that the question was rhetorical.

"I am. My face can be read like a book—it's a decision I make. But I'm constantly giving _of_ myself, too, and it's become so _fucking exhausting_" She looked at him and the face he gave prompted her to continue.

Gillian took a moment and then she abandoned her post behind the chair and chose to sit in the chair, instead. They had reversed their positions from earlier and she decided to change her tactical approach to the conversation. She sighed as she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her cheek on her fist.

Cal gazed into Gillian's eyes and what he saw there brought a wave of nausea over him. He saw sadness. For the first time in seven years, he didn't see a trace of any other emotion in her eyes. There was no anger—no arousal—no fear—just pure sadness and his stomach dropped to his feet when he made himself recognize that he and he alone happened to be the cause of her sadness.

"I'm tired, Cal." She brushed her fingers over her hairline as she searched for the words to continue, "I'm just so damn tired of living my life for other people." She fixed her stare on something high up on the wall behind Cal's head, "I've spent my entire life living for other people—and none of them have turned out to be worth it. When I was a child, I lived for my parents, constantly seeking their approval. In school, I lived for my teachers. In college, I lived for my professors. Everything I did centered around what would make them happy—never around what would make me happy. And then I married Alec," Cal couldn't control his contempt at the mention of her ex-husband's name.

Gillian caught his expression and felt a surge of disdain, "Don't, Cal." She admonished sternly, "You don't have the right now to act as though you're so different than he is." She understood this was probably a low blow, but she was tired of not saying what she felt.

His indignation at her comment was overwhelming, and he couldn't stop himself from jumping in, "Now, wait a _bloody_ minute, Foster—don't you _dare _compare me to your ex-husband! We're nothing alike!"

Gillian laughed a little ironic laugh at that, "Oh, aren't you?"

He pointed his finger, "No, we're bloody not."

"I've been in a relationship with both of you for _years_, Cal, I think I'd know better whether or not there are similarities—and trust me, there are. He took me for granted." She looked at him pointedly, "He chose something over me every single day for years—he refused to acknowledge me as his equal, as his partner in our marriage, he chose to go solo in nearly everything and especially in dealing with the important things."

Cal looked sad for a moment, "This is ridiculous."

"I don't know. Maybe it is, maybe you're nothing alike. Maybe there's nothing wrong with either of you—maybe it's just me."

Cal studied her, "You don't believe that."

"No," she shook her head. "No, I don't. But I have been making the same mistakes all my life and I'm tired of it, Cal. I've been putting other people and other things before me and look what it's gotten me."

Cal's eyebrows rose as he met her gaze.

"Nothing!" she said, gravely. "Not a damn thing. Not even a name on a damn door."

Cal took offense to that, "Now wait a minute, you said you didn't care about having—"

She cut him off, anger seeping into her veins for the first time since they'd started all of this, "_Goddamn it, Cal!_ That's _not_ the point!" She took a steadying breath before she continued.

"Everyone's just let me down," she looked at him, making her meaning clear, "Even the people I thought never would. I deserve better—I've been looked at as one type of inconvenience or another for as very long time—a burden, a wet blanket and worse—and I'm _not_ any of those things. I'm _necessary_."

"_I know that_, Foster." He tried to sound convincing, but he was so wrought with emotion that the phrase came out scarcely as a whisper.

She observed him for a minute, putting to use all she'd learned from him throughout the years—she watched him squirm a bit under her scrutiny. "No," She shook her head, "You don't." She concluded—"But you will."

Cal felt a resurgence of his earlier frustration at her words—"Foster, will you stop being so bloody cryptic!" He nearly shouted at her—his voice taut with emotion.

"I want out." She said with resolve, not allowing the quiver she felt in her stomach to creep into her voice.

"What?" Cal could hardly speak.

"You heard me." She nodded, "I want _out_." She said it again.

"Foster, you can't really mean that—"

She looked at some distant point beyond his head, "I can." She nodded affirmation again, "I do." she finished emphatically.

Cal exhaled through his nostrils, a surge of adrenaline beginning to sweep its way through his body, "This isn't right."

She laughed mirthlessly, "No, you're right, it's not. And it's nowhere near where I thought we'd end up seven years ago."

He couldn't hide his curiosity about where she'd thought they'd end up—something had flickered over his face when she said it.

Understanding his silent question, she spoke, "Gillian…" Cal began, feeling the need say something relevant, if only so he could momentarily pause the wave of melancholy that was so quickly taking over his entire body.

"Let me finish." She glanced at him and then back to the point on the wall. Cal resisted his urge to turn around and find the point of reference. Instead, he just nodded.

She cleared her throat, "For the last seven years I'd fooled myself into believing that we were a team, Cal. You put your blood and sweat into the Lightman group and I put my tears." He watched as more of her tears threatened to fall, "You have no idea how many _hours_ I've spent crying over this place—over you—and over this company. And somewhere along the way I began to live my life for this company. And I was fine with it because I was under the impression that you and I dealt in mutuality. I thought we had an understanding.

Imagine my surprise. I've done nothing but defend you, Cal. All these years. I've defended you to my friends, I've defended you to the staff, I've defended you to suspects, clients, the FBI, the police, the critics. Cal, to the President of the United States of America, I've defended you." She shook her head and blinked her eyes. Delicately bringing her index finger up to her eye, she put the side of it underneath her eye and blinked. She removed the tears and a little bit of mascara.

She placed her palms flat on her legs and finally met his eyes—they sparkled in the natural light of the afternoon, "And none of it has mattered."

Cal noticed the look of defeat pass across her face and a feeling of urgency surged within him "it has, love," he spoke quickly, leaning forward—the words rushed out, "It's mattered more than you know." He read no change on her face and so he continued, reaching his hands out into the abyss and grasping at something, _anything,_ "I'm sorry, Gillian. I'm sorry." The desperation and panic in his body found their way into his voice and he felt himself on the verge of completely foreign territory "I'm so bloody sorry." His voice hitched slightly, "A thousand times, I'm sorry."

Gillian didn't let herself react—she felt Cal's words enter her body and tug at her heart. She felt them pool in her stomach and she steeled herself against them—letting the immense tragedy she felt chase the underpinnings of the beginning of forgiveness away, "It's not enough, Cal."

His eyes went wide with panic—

She shook her head once, and the air of finality the gesture achieved was not lost on Cal, "It's not enough." She set her jaw "It is one thing, Cal, to _say things you don't mean_, but you said things that you _absolutely_ meant—and how are we _ever_ to come back from that?"

"I don't know," He said honestly, "I don't know—But, you can't just give up, Gillian." Not for the first time this afternoon he felt at a loss for words, and the ones he chose rang dumb even to his own ears.

Gillian let them hang in the air for a moment before she seized upon them "You're done telling me what I can and can't do, Cal."

* * *

it's either the end,  
or there's more.  
i honestly don't know yet.


End file.
